"Blue, are you okay?"
The answer should be obvious. I'm better than okay. I'm ecstatic. But I nod, not giving anything away because I don't want him to stop asking. I don't want him to stop caring tonight, or ever.
But then he presses me harder, and I can't contain it.
"Yes," I say again, matching his stride for two seconds before my speed tips forward and I drift half a step ahead. I wobble too close to the curb, practically sing, "I'm perfect."
His hand comes to my elbow to steady me. The touch burns through my sleeve, a hot, electric brand that zips straight to my chest.
In my head, I picture him pushing me against a wall the second we get inside my apartment. He grabs my jaw, telling me to stop pretending I don't know what this is. Then I picture his mouth crashing into mine, and all his restraint snapping like a frayed wire.
"Blue," he blurts out, tugging me into him.
A bicyclist zips by.
"Watch out," he shouts at the rider.
More adrenaline fills me. "Thanks for saving me, Dr. Mercer." I bat my eyes at him.
He stays quiet, continuing to watch me, scanning my face when we reach another lamppost.
The silence between us hums, full of things he doesn't say out loud.
I slow my pace, chirping, "You keep staring."
"I'm making sure you're steady," he claims, voice low and clipped.
"Why wouldn't I be steady?" I tease, even though I know exactly why. My legs feel like liquid one moment, air the next. My heart pounds faster than the steps we're taking. I'm wired and weightless, and my skin feels too tight.
It's glorious!
I spin in a circle several times until I'm dizzy and almost fall.
"Blue!" he cries out, tugging me into him.
I laugh into his chest, trembling in his arms.
"You're shaking. I don't think you should be spinning right now." He shifts closer, and his protectiveness makes my throat tighten.
"We're almost there," he mumbles, then slides his arm behind my waist and steers me around the corner and onto my street.
A new wave of anticipation explodes all over again.
He knows where I live now!
My brain races faster than my feet.
What will happen when we get inside?
Will he sit with me?
Talk with me?
Ask me to show him the dress?
Will he finally crack and admit everything he's been holding back?
Will he tell me to model the lingerie I made for him?
